


evocation

by mikasuhdude



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, One Shot Collection, this is for xio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:49:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikasuhdude/pseuds/mikasuhdude
Summary: A collection of drabbles that will follow Eren and Mikasa through various AUs.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. brevity

**Author's Note:**

> thanks 123 for ripping me to shreds. here's my take on it.

Eren’s shift from vehemency to impassivity was sudden, a jarring change in tone that felt all too wrong. A person who once bore emotions with courage and confidence grew to communicate with only a slow blink of the eyes. It was foreign, too cold to be recognizable.

And everyone noticed, Jean the only person bold enough to grab Eren by the collar and express concern in a fashion unique to the type of relationship the two young men shared, but it was Eren’s sad smile in lifting his hand to pry Jean’s from his shirt that revealed a glimpse of understanding: this wasn’t something that _could_ be understood. Eren hardly understood the shift himself.

Because even he had noticed it.

Perhaps Eren expects his peers to simply understand, to look at his situation from an objective standpoint and feel nothing more than sympathy. A selfish expectation, truly. He hadn’t realized how selfish it was until he noticed the dejected sighs of his friends. Crinkled brows that would turn his way in worry, enthusiastic greetings left to wither into something awkward in response to his, often hallow, “hello’s.” When he had grown keen to how his attitude affected his loved ones, the guilt was nearly enough to pierce his growing numbness. Nearly.

Because numbness had become a coping mechanism he embraced. It was easy to live in a haze, to view the world through a thin veil of fuzz because accepting what was reality was far too difficult sometimes. It makes him wish he had never unlocked the memories of his predecessors, for it was growing difficult for Eren to differentiate himself from them—emotions, intentions, memories. If people were colors, then his mind felt like a swirl of brownish-gray that had been mixed all too thoroughly. To witness the collapse of nations and feel death itself dancing on his fingertips wasn’t something he was fond of. Again, it was easier to blindly accept the gray of his mind than to sort through the colors.

He had to learn to accept things as they were: he had no authority over history, over culture, over others, over death.

Another lesson of accepting, and possibly the most painful, had dabbled in things much more personal than big-picture constructs. He had accepted that the things he desired were never to be reality. If life promises one thing, it is opposition.

A piece of him wonders if he brings it upon himself, that by longing for something so desperately, he will only be met with the opposite—a reoccurring theme that had proved itself true time after time. Like in Trost, where he was hard-headed and adamant in defeating the titans only to immediately lose an arm and a leg without having killed a single one. Or how the outside world he idolized as a child was supposed to be riddled with endless discovery, but it turned out to be burdened with the very issues he had loathed in his own hometown. It was true in his relationships, where the lives of those he cared so deeply for always managed to slip through his fingers like sand.

But if life were to promise another thing, it would be irony.

A series of emotions had stirred in his gut overtime whenever his eyes would land on her, a person who he had learned to admire amid the idiocy of his youth.

_Push her away. Retaliate against her care, declare independence, prove your strength. Push her away._

Thoughts that had kept him up late at night as a trainee in frustration had now grown distasteful, made him squeeze his eyes shut as if it would turn his very memories off.

Eren had never been one to think outside of anything platonic. Even when whispers in the 104th dorms dressed in alluring, seductive fashion, he identified the gossip as nothing more than empty siren-calls. He was not created for love, nor was there any room for it in the commotion that was his life.

So when he started to notice mundane details about Mikasa, Eren was confused. He noticed things like how she would fiddle with the folds of her skirt during moments of silence or how a single freckle sat on the back of her neck. She started to enter his mind somewhat obsessively during the day, but it was always welcomed. He’d wonder about things like if she ate the entirety of her breakfast or when the next time he’d see her would be.

And it’s wrong. He isn’t _supposed _to feel the things he feels when he stood next to her.

But she was the one who would pierce the veil of numbness, serve as the soul of his reality. Even if it was something as simple as her awkward smile or a certain look in her eye, Mikasa would pull him out without even realizing it. She had always been talented in rescuing him.

But it’s wrong, and he can’t feel this way. He couldn’t do that to her, rope her into something that would inevitably fail. He’d already caused her enough strife, had carved too many scars and broke too many bones in her body from all the times she sought out his safety.

_“What am I to you?”_

So a definition of _her_ emotions seemed necessary—that if he was proved there was nothing mutual, then she could pull him out of forbidden, damning feelings. It seemed logical, and he needs her to provide this unspoken favor. The sake of the world is much more important than the matters of his heart.

There’s a hesitance that stirs his impatience. She doesn’t understand the brevity of this conversation, but he cannot blame her for that. She’s entirely unaware of how his bags are already packed, how he plans to turn his back to the only people he cares about. He can only hope she will sense his urgency by the mere furrow of his brow and gaze in his eyes. She knew him better than anyone, surely she would pick up on the hint.

But when cherry-blossom stains her cheeks in response to such an intimate question, Eren curses himself for what it is he feels. Again, without even realizing it, she had pulled him out of the numbness. It was easy to live in a haze, but this moment felt too clear. Too raw. Too real. There were no previous emotions from past lives contributing to what was rising in his chest:

Hope.

But if life were to promise something other than opposition, it would be irony.

She stammers: “Famil…”

As if a reflex, his face falls, and numbness begins to take hold once more. Maybe he had only ever served as a brother figure, or maybe Eren had mistaken the careful attention of another for something more than it truly was.

And though it’s selfish to think, maybe _he_ was the one who persuaded her into such a mindset.

_Push her away. Retaliate against her care, declare independence, prove your strength. Push her away._

Had she actually listened?

It’s the commotion of distant voices and calling that tears his eyes from her flowered cheeks, and the numbness settles at a rate that it never has before. Had he realized these emotions sooner, had he treated her better in his youth, maybe things would have turned out differently.


	2. calm down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a rather short drabble of some bickering 15yo EM that i wrote awhile ago, but i'm really proud of it and just wanted to add it to this collection.

“It’s not that bad,” her voice comes in an even, calm tone, and it’s almost believable.

It’s more believable than the makeshift bed of tattered jackets she rests upon on a moving wagon. Much more credible than the makeshift bandages she wears—torn pieces of cloth now bloodied to tightly tie around her upper thigh and lower abdomen.

It’s_ almost_ believable.

Because it’s apparent that it _is _‘that bad’ in the way he feels her hand trembling in his own as if a flower left to dwindle in an unforgiving storm. And he’s frustrated because he can _see_ how her petals surrender to the winds, see how he is helpless to help her. He can only watch as she wilts further, as muted shades of purple and burgundy contrast against and flower along her skin, parasitic colors plaguing her complexion with bruises and scars. Bruises and scars _he_ was responsible for.

Indirectly.

And that’s exactly why he’s mad. Because _she_ _chose_ to abandon her post and seek him out to ‘ensure his safety.’ She didn’t have to—in fact, she wasn’t _supposed _to—yet she was still stubborn in her concern, stagnant in her worry, so her body is painted and splattered with crimsons and mauves she was never meant to bear.

His brows furrow, gaze burning into the hand he holds as he concentrates on it. Milky hands that were meant to cross stitch carnations and grab kindling from the grass had grown calloused and scarred, his name etched into each crease and wrinkle of her palm, and _it frustrates him_. And he doesn’t know how to communicate his concern to her, doesn’t know how to express the fear that made way into his heart after seeing her toppled over in a field as she coughed foreign colors.

Instead, he bites his lower lip and speaks in a tone much harsher than intended. “You’re _reckless_, Mikasa.”

“I told you: it’s not that bad,” she repeats in that even, calm tone, and it only further frustrates him. Because even when she bleeds in front of him and her breath gradually shallows, she still prioritizes _his_ wellbeing over her own, making sure he at least _thinks_ she’s okay.

But he is not in the mood nor headspace to appreciate her sentiments. “Bad or not, you can’t be so irresponsible, _especially _when we’re outside the walls!”

“Thanks to me, you’re still alive.”

“I was _fine_,” he spits, ignoring the literal spit that flies from his lip and lands on her cheek. “‘Thanks to you,’ you’re bound to be on leave for who knows how long.”

“Hange said I should be back on my feet in at least a week.”

“That’s not the point!” Involuntarily, he grits his teeth. “You have to stop being so rash.”

“Eren—”

“What if something happened to you out there?”

Ironic, he supposes, how he’d always lash out at her pestering, insistent on how she had no right nor authority to coddle him, yet here in this scenario, _he’s_ pestering _her_. But he’s justified, and this is _her_ fault. He has a right to be concerned, to be angry.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Nonetheless, he continues in vehemence. “If you die, do you realize how much of a loss that would be?”

_‘To the Survey Corps, to Armin, to me,’_ is what he doesn’t add.

But he wonders if she somehow knows the words that sit on his tongue because her eyes flutter shut, and a hand lifts to massage her left temple. He can’t help but notice how her brows—though thin and hidden behind the onyx of her bangs—crinkle subtly.

“Eren,” a third voice intrudes, and he looks up to see a blond on horseback closely following the wagon. “Maybe… maybe you should tone it down a notch.”

“Armin—”

“We’ll reach Wall Rose soon, but you should let Mikasa try and rest until she can get proper medical help,” the blond continues. “You guys can hash this out later.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees how Mikasa subtly nods her head in agreement, and Eren lets out a sigh (whether it’s one of defeat or frustration, he doesn’t know). So, for once, instead of fighting, he sets his concentration back on the smaller hand he holds. Perhaps slowly running his thumb across the top of it will serve as an apology for his confrontation. She needed rest, even if he had a chip on his shoulder as to why she needed it in the first place.

Eren convinces himself that the tremor of the wilting woman is in result of the traveling wagon, and the blotted colors on her skin were in result of the setting sun—nothing more.


End file.
